Dear Margaret

Dear Margaret,

Sorry if it's a little cold in the living room when you get home. I wish I could say I'd just left a window open like you're always claiming I do (I don't), but what you're feeling will actually be the sub-zero wind chill drifting from an open portal to the demonic realm.

I know, I know. You've told me time and again to lay off with all the 'dark magic crap' but it wouldn't kill you, Margaret, to understand that as a wizard of the shadow realm this is actually both my passion and my purpose. I'm just a little rusty on the spellwork.

I went to my D&D clan at the card shop where I got the spellbook in the first place, but Raven, the purveyor of musty old tomes, wasn’t there. Brett (the one you hate with the sweat stains) was like, "bro, what are you smoking?" Some supreme dungeon master. And then Dana (the one you hate with the nose ring) said, "You're one of those next-level larpers, huh?" So now I know they're all fakes who know absolutely nothing about the craft, and I decided if I wanted anything done, I’d have to fix it myself.

When I got home again, I went at it- pulled out a spell on a sticky note that said simply ‘undo’ on it. It was on the same page as the original spell I’d used, so you can understand my thinking it was the solution to the problem. But… it appears to have made things worse.

You might notice shadows out of the corners of your eye that fill you with a type of existential dread you did not before think possible- but if you just kind of blink a few times in rapid succession and ignore it as best you can it gets easier. If you notice the shadows being sort of- I don't know how to say this, but persistent-like (kind of like they're getting closer and closer to devour you whole), maybe get up and go to a different room. That's what I've been doing and it seems to work okay.

It's also possible you might hear voices calling your name or whispering arcane words in a kind of guttural chant. I've been ignoring this when it happens and so far it's fine. Also, if you look in the mirror and see a bitter old man who looks like a mix of the crypt keeper and that lady who works the special little island checkout counter at the Stop and Shop- I actually haven't figured out what he means yet, but he hasn't made any moves as of yet, per say.

While I'm at it, I'm sorry about the two-yard wide sigil drawn on the floor of the living room; the fix-it spell that was not, in fact, a fix-it spell required it. I did not realize the marker was permanent and I know we just got the floors done but honestly if you look at the bright side it's going to be a great conversation piece once all this is over. I put that giant oriental rug you hate over it for contrast and I think when you look at them side by side you might decide you prefer the protection circle, but that's neither here nor there.

Also, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the stench of raw meat that sometimes permeates the whole first floor in the morning. And the footsteps that get faster and faster racing over the floorboards upstairs when you're trying to do the dishes. But look, here are some fun things you can try, some positives, if you will: Try standing at the base of the stairs with your back to them. You'll start to hear an ominous sort of growling and then footsteps thundering down the stairs right at you. I think that might be a hellhound, which is great because you always wanted a dog.

Another fun thing: sometimes when you get out of the shower they (I think there's a lot of them, maybe like a whole minor arcana- a flight?- a passel? - of demons) like to leave you little messages in the condensation on the mirror. So far I have RUN NOW and YOU WILL BLEED and I'M NOT TRYING TO BE YOUR FRIEND, STOP IT (that last one was after I wrote back one day.)

Listen, I'm not trying to make excuses, but I know how you get and I want to stress that this is not an emergency. Do not panic. This doesn't need to affect your life. It certainly doesn't need to affect our relationship.

I know you said 'no more of that magic bullshit' after the thing with the extra-long dog and hamster hybrid, but Margaret- just imagine for a second that you were born with a single fucked up foot that looked like a cloven hoof and everybody called you hoof boy and you spent your entire childhood studying to curse their entire ancestral line and they all said 'the dark arts aren't real, you loser' and you said 'oh yes they are' and then one day you showed them, and the next week every one of their grandparents mysteriously disappeared, and years later, though you met a girl you loved (that’s you!) you still thought about that time and how it was like a gateway drug, and so when you got your sweaty little paws on an actual tome from the Archives of the Unseen you couldn’t resist.

In the meantime, not to detract from my crimes, but my skin has been flourishing, and I'm sure yours will too. It's something about that chilly air- that and the faint screams you can hear when you're on the edge of sleep. I swear there's something exfoliating in it. You love to exfoliate. Don't pretend you don't.

Anyway, I went back to the shop again when Raven was in and chucked the tome at her in righteous fury. This was during the Magic The Gathering ultimate battle, and it hit her and blinded her in one eye and I think she's going to sue so I'm sorry about that too I guess (screen calls ending with 5512). I said, that spell on page 371 is about to ruin my marriage and she said excuse me? With her eyes all squinty and then she said, Listen hoof boy, you're nuts. Get a psychiatrist. But the joke's on her because I already have one. Even though I'm pretty sure he's trying to poison me with the prescription I refuse to take.

So you can see how we landed here. Just an unfortunate confluence of events, really. I know you didn't go away on your week-long conference and expect to come back to a demon-infested home, but things can't always go your way. Sometimes you've got to roll with the punches. I know you, Margaret, and I know right now you're thinking, Cassian, why the fuck would you open a portal in the middle of our living room to begin with? Well. Here's my confession: I thought I could close it. Also, I'm curious about my origins. Ever since I was born with that cloven hoof, I knew there was something different about me. Something- destined. And fuck me if I didn't want to go back to my not-so-humble beginnings and find it.

And that leads me to the real thing I have to apologize for, which is what I'm about to do. Because Margaret, I've been sleepwalking. And every time I sleepwalk, I end up coming to right next to the portal. At first I was like what the fuck, this is so annoying, but then I started hearing this voice. It sounded like Satan with a lisp, and it was telling me I am your father, kind of like in Star Wars. And then, last night it said, son, come home. And this morning I just took off my sock and stared at my weird hoof foot for what I thought was a few minutes but ended up being six hours, six minutes and six seconds. And now I know what I have to do.

You've probably guessed it by now. I'm going in. Or- by the time you get this- I will have gone in, thrown the watery sack of meat in which I reside through the portal into whatever is waiting for me on the other side.

I don't want you to get all emotional over this. I just want to check things out, maybe go for a visit. You know how you're adopted, and you've always wanted to know your real parents? That's how I feel now. And I know you'll say, but Cassian, your dad really IS your dad, your mom did that full-ass paternity test on him, to which I might waggle my finger and say, you little scientist, you. But you know I can't be stopped once I set my mind to something, particularly when I've got no adult supervision.

And here's the good news- maybe me going through the portal will actually close it up, maybe I'm just the thing it needs to plug its pie-hole, to fix what I’ve only thus far managed to make worse. Okay, so now I'm thinking that’s a double-edged sword, because if I go through and it shuts, there's the slight possibility that I won't be able to get back out. That could be a little sticky.

And in that case, Margaret, I want you to know that I won't begrudge you for moving on without me (just could you please not do it with that pencil-neck jerk you've been cheating on me with? THANKS). I don't have a will, so you would get all my possessions and stuff (I trust you'll give me the really good ones back if I hack my way out of the void again- like for instance my vintage Coca-Cola machine and the massage chair). In conclusion, I'm not sure I loved you, but I really really liked you, and that's probably more meaningful anyway even though I know you were really starting to resent me at the end there (yeah, I guess I can't say Raven and her dumb book ruined my relationship if it's already been on the rocks. Speaking of- remember to block that number - 5512). Say "see ya later you dumb losers" to all your friends from your weirdo satanic boyfriend.

K, I think that's it, I'm sorry for ending things like this but it's probably the best for both of us if you really think about it. Anyway, hopefully you can sell this house or something if the stuff still doesn't resolve. Realtors totally cover up demonic possessions every single day, I looked into it. I'm going to leave my engagement ring, you could probably exchange it for that peloton you’ve been wanting. Anyway- I can hear him now, ushering me from beyond the veil. Here goes nothing.

Cassian

ps - sorry about my handwriting, my hands a̸̛̘̪̒̈́̿ȓ̷̪͎̱̺ẻ̴̥ t̸̢̨̖̼̫̟̦̜̦̋̃̄̔͘ǘ̷̡̨̻̦̫̰̹̫̻̤͕̙r̷̬͗̏̄̃́͆̓̓̍ṉ̸̡͖̙̲͇̬̩̳̲̎̓̃͒̿̾̽̇̆͜į̶̗͕̺̙̉̍̏́̌̎̍̾͐̑̽̀ͅņ̸̨̬̮̻͙̉̿̄̒̃̅̾͘g̸̨̗͑͗͌ i̴͎̹̖͖͂̀́̐̓̕ń̴̙͓̠̖̼̰̄̋͋͐̍̄̔͘͠t̸̢̧̻̰̹̟͎̲͎̻̼̲̫͈̟̼̒͒̇̋́̇̍͌̈́̋̂͘o̷̠̩̻̥̗̮̥͍͌̈́͐̀͆̌̀̄̊͐̍͐̋̋̾̀̓͗͜ c̴̛̳̮͖̼̗͚̫̬͙̥̯̥̭͋̌͛̑̒͆͊͌̀̏̈́̊̊̏̕͝͝ļ̸̡̯̗̖̝̳͖̮̂̐̓̍͐͊̇́͂͛͌͗̕ą̵̡̱̹̹͕͉͙̰̘͙̯̰̣̥̥̮̬͖̺̭̬̗̩͉͕͍̭̜̆̌̆̂̋͋̽̍͋̏̐̂̉̌͗̃̇͋͗̑͌͋̏̕͜w̷̬͌̾͂͌̚s̷̭̺̲͈̺̺̱̪͉̪̲̤̭̖̪̤̫̖̬͎̪̞̥̮̲͚͓͉̟̲͇͌̆̓̋͋̅̀̃͋̓̊͛͠ͅ